Bartolomé (8 page)

Joaquín Goes Away

BARTOLOMÉ was so lost in thought during supper that Ana kicked him surreptitiously. ‘Pull yourself together,' she whispered. ‘Papa has looked over at you three times because you're not eating and are staring into space.'

Hastily, Bartolomé stuck a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed on it.

‘I have good news,' said Juan proudly.

Everyone looked expectantly at him.

‘It has to do with Joaquín. I spoke to the baker today. He is very satisfied. After dinner, Joaquín and I are going to go over there to sign the contract. From tomorrow, you'll be an apprentice baker.

Bartolomé could see how pleased Joaquín was about the praise and about his father's pride.
When I can read and write properly
, Bartolomé thought,
he'll be proud of me too
.

‘I'll miss him,' said Isabel. ‘He's saved me a lot of work.'

Juan nodded. ‘It's time Beatríz began to help more around the house. She's old enough now.'

Beatríz pulled a face and sulked. She didn't want to work. Playing was much nicer.

‘I could sew by the time I was six,' Ana pointed out to her little sister. In her opinion, Beatríz had been far too spoilt.

As if turned to stone, Bartolomé sat among them. Was he the only one who realised how dreadful this change was going to be? Joaquín was going to move out, and Beatríz was going to be home more to help out around the house instead of playing in the yard. How was he going to study and – he shuddered – how was he going to get to Don Cristobal if Joaquín couldn't carry him? Bartolomé's arms and legs started to shake. He could feel Juan staring at him crossly. But he couldn't stop. The muscles in his face clenched, making it even more crooked. A little thread of spittle ran out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Go to bed,' said Juan in disgust.

Isabel jumped up and carried Bartolomé into the little bedroom. She rolled out his sleeping mat, laid him on it, and covered his shivering body. ‘He'll come to visit us as soon as he can,' she said to console him.

Bartolomé turned his face away from her. Visit! He needed Joaquín's swift legs and his strong back. Without him, he couldn't manage.

Juan stood in the doorway. ‘I knew that Madrid was no place for Bartolomé. At home, he never shook like this. As soon as I get permission, I will go back to the village and take him with me.'

Isabel said nothing. Even through the cover, she could see how her son was still shivering. In the village Bartolomé had been different and she had had no secrets from her husband. Maybe it would be better for everyone if Bartolomé went back there after all.

The next morning Joaquín stood awkwardly beside Bartolomé's sleeping mat. ‘I'm leaving now, Bartolomé,' he said. He was carrying a bundle with his clothes wrapped in it under his right arm.

Bartolomé had refused to get up and have breakfast.

‘When he gets hungry, he'll come,' Juan had said and wouldn't let Isabel get him.

It's all gone so quickly since supper last night,
thought Joaquín, looking at the silent shape under the bedclothes. He'd hardly have thought it possible that he would be going this morning to the baker with his father. Nobody in his family had ever learnt a trade before. They'd all been poor tenant farmers. Joaquín was planning to become the best baker in Madrid. Maybe he would even supply the royal court.

Bartolomé knew he should say goodbye to Joaquín. He would only see him occasionally in the coming years. But at that moment, he hated his brother.

Has Joaquín no idea how much damage he is doing?
thought Bartolomé bitterly. Joaquín could just as easily go to learn his trade and start his own life later. But because he was going now, he was destroying Bartolomé's only hope of achieving the same. He didn't want to talk to Joaquín or even to look at him.

Joaquín hunkered down beside the mat. ‘I'm sorry,' he whispered. ‘But this was always the plan. You knew all along I was on probation with the baker and that I was going to have to go and live there when the apprenticeship was set up.'

Joaquín stroked the cover unhappily. He didn't want Bartolomé to be sad. ‘And anyway, you can read now,' he said.

Bartolomé stiffened.

‘I'll go and explain to Don Cristobal why you can't come any more, so he won't think you're just lazy,' Joaquín promised.

Bartolomé didn't move.

‘I'm sure you can keep the paper and the pen and ink for a while longer. You can use those things to practise your writing. You're so smart, Bartolomé. You'll do it, even without Don Cristobal's help. I know you will.'

Bartolomé suppressed a sob.

‘As soon as I get a day off, I'll take you and your paper with all the questions on it to Don Cristobal. I promise.'

Joaquín stood up and waited. Bartolomé didn't answer. He gave no indication of having heard a word of what Joaquín had said.

‘I helped you as much as I could,' said Joaquín, crestfallen. ‘You never once said thank you.'

Now the cover moved and Bartolomé stuck out a tear-stained face. His mouth was a hard line.

‘First you behave as if I am a real human being, then you just take off. You were probably lying all along.'

Bartolomé knew how unfair this accusation was. He could see how much he'd hurt Joaquín with it. Even so, he added, ‘And I hate you for that. I don't want anything more from you. You can go. I don't need a brother.'

Joaquín left the room without a word.

When Bartolomé heard the front door closing, he started to cry and cry. He wished he could run after Joaquín.

Ana came in and sat down beside Bartolomé on the floor. To console him, she took his head on her lap. She ruffled his hair softly with her hand. She sang a tune that she had made up herself. Gradually, Bartolomé's sobs died down. And in the end, he stopped crying.

‘If you promise me,' whispered Ana, ‘that you will work away on your own for two weeks, then I'll try to find a way to get you to Don Cristobal in the laundry basket after that.'

Bartolomé sat up. ‘The basket is too heavy,' he said. ‘Joaquín is stronger than you, and even he could barely carry me. There is no point in promising me something you can't do.'

Ana's face took on a decisive look. ‘Do you want to become a secretary or not?' she asked.

‘Of course I do, but –'

‘No buts! Take your book and start learning. Use every hour. I'll make sure that Beatríz has to go to the well for water. That'll keep her out of the way for a while.'

Bartolomé looked up at his big sister. Her voice sounded just like her father's. Did she know that?

Ana left the room and Bartolomé crawled off his mat, washed his face and hands in the washbasin, dried himself carefully and got his book, paper, ink and pen out of the chest. He opened the book and began to study. But all the time, he could see Ana's face in his mind's eye. Would she really take him to Don Cristobal?

Without giving much thought to what he was doing, Bartolomé took up a piece of paper. He dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote, ‘Ana will always help me. She promised.'

Now that it was there in black and white, Bartolomé's confidence grew that she would be able to do it. But should he waste a piece of paper like this? Well, it was too late to worry about that now.

‘I love Ana very much,' he added.

And Joaquín?
He left me in the lurch,
Bartolomé answered his own inner voice. But he knew that was not true.

He dipped his pen in the ink again and started to write, one sentence after another. He wrote down all his troubles from his heart. When he had finished, he felt relieved. In this way, he felt, he had somehow begged Joaquín's pardon.

The bottom one-third of the page was still blank. But no more sentences occurred to Bartolomé, so instead he drew, as he used to draw in the sand of the village square. Using light strokes, he drew Ana, consoling him; Joaquín, shouldering the laundry basket; Beatríz coming home from the well with a jug of water, scowling, and Manuel in his mother's arms.

Drawing is much easier than writing,
Bartolomé thought. It allowed him to express things that he couldn't find words for. After some hesitation, he added, right in the corner, a picture of Juan putting on his uniform. And under it he wrote one final sentence: ‘He must not send me back.'

It was a kind of vow. Bartolomé folded the page and stuck it into a crack in the floorboards.

Ana's Plan

OVER the next two weeks, Bartolomé studied diligently. He read page after page. Using a piece of chalk that Isabel had somehow found for him, and which did not leave smears when it was wiped out, he covered the floor of the little room with words. His list of questions also grew. Before long, he had run out of paper and his inkpot was almost empty.

At last, the fourteen days were over. When he woke up the next morning, Bartolomé looked expectantly at Ana. He was afraid to ask. He was afraid that she was not going to be able to keep her promise. But Ana gave a confident smile.

‘When Beatríz goes to the market with Mama this afternoon, then it's time,' she whispered happily into his ear, as if there was no question of a problem.

The morning dragged by endlessly in the little room. Bartolomé had scrubbed his face ages ago and combed his wild hair and changed his shirt. He had his bundle of papers stacked up neatly and placed in the cloth bag along with his book, paper, pen and ink. He waited, listening. He could still hear Beatríz's light voice and Isabel's soft, deep one in the living room. When would they go? Noon had just chimed. At last, just as he was about to explode with impatience, he heard the door shutting and Ana came into the little bedroom. She had the laundry basket on her back.

‘You can't carry me,' said Bartolomé, disappointed. ‘You're not able for it.'

‘Wait and see. Don't be so curious,' answered Ana mysteriously.

She didn't often get a chance to hatch a plan and carry it out. That was not the kind of thing a young girl did, one that might soon be getting married. All the more reason to enjoy making Bartolomé wait a bit.

‘Come down with me,' she said, helping him to the front door of the apartment. At this hour, she could be sure there'd be nobody on the stairs.

Bartolomé followed Ana down the steep, dark stairs. He slithered from step to step on his bottom. Downstairs in the dim hallway, Ana put the laundry basket down in front of Don Zorillo's door, helped Bartolomé into it, and covered him carefully with a few pieces of washing.

‘Keep still and don't make a sound.'

She knocked on the door. Doña Rosita opened it.

‘Good afternoon,' said Ana demurely.

‘Good afternoon.' Doña Rosita gave Ana a slightly worried look. Manuel was with her, and she was afraid that Ana had come to fetch him.

‘I wonder if I could take Jeronima with me to do the laundry,' Ana asked.

Doña Rosita smiled, relieved. ‘Any time!' she said. ‘She just sits all day in the corner and has no interest in anything, the poor thing.'

Doña Rosita took a shawl out of a chest and pulled Jeronima out from between the stove and the table. She put the shawl around her big strong daughter, who, at the age of twenty, had the mind of a four-year-old child.

Ana put out her hand. ‘Come on, Jeronima, you can help me with the washing.'

Jeronima started to beam and wave her hands about excitedly. She nodded enthusiastically. She liked Ana. This girl was always nice to her.

‘Promise me that you'll be good and you'll stay with Ana,' said Doña Rosita.

‘I'm good,' Jeronima said quickly and followed Ana out into the hall.

As soon as the door had closed, Ana pointed to the laundry basket.

‘Dear Jeronima,' she said in a flattering voice, ‘you're so strong. Wouldn't you like to carry the basket for me?'

‘I am very strong,' said Jeronima puffing out her chest. She bent down and Ana put the straps over her shoulders. Jeronima straightened up with no trouble. She didn't seem to feel the heavy burden.

Hand in hand, the two girls stepped out of the house into the bright sunshine. They strolled through the streets. Ana gave Jeronima lots of time to look at everything. She stood patiently with her in front of a variety of shops. Jeronima was as pleased as a child when a street juggler blocked their way and put on a little display for them. When the man looked for a tip at the end of his performance, Jeronima rummaged eagerly in her pocket, only to find nothing there.

‘No money,' she said sadly.

The juggler, who had noticed that Jeronima was simple, bowed kindly, took off his multicoloured hat and said, ‘For a lovely señorita like you, my show is free.'

Jeronima beamed and Ana smiled shyly at the performer.

‘We have to go now,' she whispered to Jeronima. The juggler waved after them.

At last they arrived at the monastery. Ana helped Jeronima to slip out of the straps and put the laundry basket down at the door.

Jeronima looked around curiously. She frowned. ‘Where is the well?' she asked.

‘First I have to drop something off in the monastery,' Ana explained. ‘Do you see the silversmith over there? You can go and take a look at his jewellery if you like.'

Jeronima hurried off.

Ana knocked, suddenly thinking,
Suppose Don Cristobal is not on door duty today
? But her fears came to nothing. The heavy wooden door opened and the friendly face of Don Cristobal appeared. It took him a moment to realise who the girl was. ‘Where has Joaquín been all this time?' asked the monk.

Ana pushed the laundry basket past him into the interior. Quickly, she helped Bartolomé out. She had no time for answering questions. Who knew what Jeronima was getting up to at the silversmith's?

‘I'm in a hurry, Father,' she said. ‘I'll be back in an hour.'

She picked up the basket and ran off. When they were sitting in their usual place under the shady colonnades of the cloister, Bartolomé explained to Don Cristobal why they hadn't come for so long.

‘Joaquín is a baker's apprentice now,' Bartolomé announced.

‘An honourable calling. Bakers are always needed,' answered Don Cristobal.

‘Secretaries also?' asked Bartolomé.

‘If they are well educated and hardworking,' said Don Cristobal with a smile. He sensed that Bartolomé was impatient to get started on the lesson.

‘I am!' cried Bartolomé. He took everything proudly out of the cloth bag. ‘The inkpot is empty. The paper is covered in questions. And I'm halfway through the book. I wrote out so many words that the floor of my room wasn't big enough.'

‘Well, show me your questions, then,' said Don Cristobal.

Bartolomé put the bundle of paper into the monk's lap and Don Cristobal leafed through the pages. He was surprised all over again to see what lovely, regular handwriting the dwarf had. Don Cristobal studied the questions, noting that most of the words were perfectly spelt. The child had made obvious progress.

Don Cristobal patiently explained to Bartolomé all the words that he hadn't known.

‘I should learn these foreign languages,' Bartolomé said as Don Cristobal translated another Latin word for him.

‘Yes, I would advise you to do that. With your ability, you will have no trouble learning several languages. Perhaps you could get work as an assistant with a teacher or even with an actual secretary, and French and Latin –' Don Cristobal stopped short. He'd forgotten for a moment that Bartolomé was a crippled dwarf. Nobody would take him on as an assistant.

‘I'm sorry, Bartolomé,' he said. ‘I just wasn't thinking.'

‘That's all right,' said Bartolomé softly. ‘I know that no teacher or secretary would take me on as an apprentice. It's not so important for me to learn these languages. If I can earn my living as a letter-writer, then I'll have to be happy with that.'

‘All the same, I shouldn't have forgotten,' said Don Cristobal.

Bartolomé looked earnestly at the monk.

‘You are the first person who has seen me as a human being and not as a deformed dwarf. Maybe when I can put money that I have earned myself on the table, my father will forget it for a few minutes too, and be proud of me. That is my dearest wish.'

Don Cristobal laid his hand on Bartolomé's head. ‘You will be the best letter-writer in Madrid, and I will do my best to make sure that you get the opportunity to study.'

‘You could dictate my first real letter to me,' Bartolomé suggested. ‘If you can give me some more paper and ink.'